


It’s Raining Men (Hallelujah)

by 221b_hound



Series: Guitar Man [37]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Boyband, Dancing, Drunken Confessions, Drunkenness, Gen, Sherlock is not as sober as he thinks he is, Stag Party, Swearing, it's for science!, these men are seriously not in charge of their brains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-25
Updated: 2013-03-25
Packaged: 2017-12-06 10:57:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/734892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Greg's stag party. John has made Sherlock promise to not be an arse. Sherlock is conducting experiments in social rituals. Sherlock is not half as sober as he thinks he is. Drunken revelations are surely the order of the day. Once the boyband dancing is over, of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It’s Raining Men (Hallelujah)

“No, no, it’s like… you do _this_ with your left foot and _that_ with your hip, and your hands… yeah. That’s it.”

Tad Anderson has some surprising talents.  Not in forensics, obviously, Sherlock thinks. Tad has very few talents in his chosen field at all, though Sherlock reluctantly gives him the benefit these days of acknowledging Anderson’s doggedness. Doggedness, Anderson has in spades. Doggedness and an excellent sense of rhythm, as borne out by his drumming. The fact that this sense of rhythm translates so well into dance should not be surprising at all. So Sherlock’s not really surprised. Or is he?

_Am I? Surprised? Does it matter? Do I care?_

And with that, Sherlock uncharacteristically abandons the train of thought because he’s finding trains of thought derailing every time he catches another glimpse of what’s going on over there on the dance floor.

Well, John can dance. Sherlock already knew that. John’s no Gene Kelly, but he’s a handy little mover with quick feet and an excellent sense of balance. It’s been useful on the occasional case, and right now John is waggling his arse and laughing like a lunatic at Greg almost falling over his own feet.

“No, no,” Tad has got hold of Greg’s arm to right him again, and is once more showing his DI how to  move his feet. For a man as drunk as Tad Anderson is, he’s got no right being so nimble. Inebriation has made him _more_ nimble, in fact, and less inhibited. He is also, Sherlock thinks, like John, a handy little mover.

This thought is perilously close to admitting that he sort of likes Tad Anderson these days, so Sherlock resumes watching Greg and John try to replicate Tad’s dance moves. None of them is fall down drunk. Just buzzy drunk. Happy and exhibitionist drunk, perfectly content to have taken the dance floor over and performing for the amusement of the attendees at Greg’s stag party.

Sherlock scowls and downs another swallow of his gin and tonic, realises the glass is empty and orders another. It’s an experiment. It’s for science. It’s for… making this night bearable. Find out how many drinks it takes to affect his motor skills and speech centres while still holding to his promise to John not to spoil the evening with _being an arse_. Sherlock thinks he’s doing quite well: he has neither said anything to make John or Greg want to punch him, and he’s also still extremely sober. Four G &Ts have had no noticeable effect on his coordination at all.

“You joining in, Sherlock, or you just gonna sit there and be all…” Greg waves a hand at Sherlock in a non-specific yet eloquent fashion, “at us.”

“I am going to sit here and be all, as you say,” Sherlock repeats the gesture but more emphatically, “At you.”

“Bastard.”

Tad is shaking his head. “He can’t anyway.”

That makes Sherlock sit up straight. “Why can’t I?”

“Haven’t practised,” says Tad.

John, who has been watching his own feet with studious interest, grins up at Sherlock. “Ha. Tad says you can’t.”

“Of course I can,” says Sherlock acidly, “It doesn’t take a genius to follow such simple choreography.”

“’S why a genius can’t do it,” declares John, his grin becoming more wicked. It makes no sense at all. None. There is no logic in that response.

“I can,” Sherlock finds himself saying anyway.

“Prove it,” says John.

“The hell I will.”

“Tad’s a better dancer’n you anyway,” says Greg airily, on his third repeat of the foot change and he’s got it down now.

Sherlock eyes Greg narrowly, ignoring John’s smirk, and then finds Tad looking at him, chin and eyebrow both raised defiantly.

“The hell he is,” snarls Sherlock.

“Bet he is,” crows John, “Bet you a tenner.”

This is how, when the requested song starts, Sherlock finds himself on his feet between John and Greg, Tad over to the left but slightly ahead where the others can check their moves with the leader.

It starts with the jogging of the left hip, then the shift to the right, and left hands extended at thigh-height, lifting jerkily in time to the music till the hands are parallel with shoulders.

_Humidity is rising_

And then knees bend and swivel

_Barometer’s getting low_

And then legs straighten, arms raise up and describe erratic circles in the ai 

_According to all sources, the street's the place to go_  
Cause tonight for the first time  
Just about half-past ten  


And the feet start, step step right, step step left, forward back, hip, bum, **bump**

 _For the first time in history_  
It's gonna start raining men.  
  
And Sherlock is following the moves he’s been watching for the last fifteen minutes in perfect time, in perfect synchronicity. He seems to be inspiring his dance team to greater heights, because Greg has stopped tripping over his own shoe laces and John’s arse waggling is making two of the barmaids forget their duties so they can watch.

 _It's Raining Men! Hallelujah!_  
It's Raining Men! Amen!  
I'm gonna go out to run and let myself get  
Absolutely soaking wet!  
  
And, well, damnit, Tad is actually very, very good. His own waggling arse is attracting attention, and that thing he’s doing with his skinny arms looks graceful. Sherlock copies it more exactly, which means that Greg and John are also responding in kind.

Sherlock doesn’t know it, but they look like a well-tuned boy band turned suddenly middle-aged. The older barmaid thinks they’d give Take That a run for their money.

 _It's Raining Men! Hallelujah!_  
It's Raining Men! Every Specimen!  
Tall, blonde, dark and lean  
Rough and tough and strong and mean  
  
Hips and torsos are moving sinuously, feet dancing faster and more confidently, and after the lyrics in praise of mother nature and the music reaches a crescendo, all four men jump into a kind of chorus line and go into a bit of freeform, and there are catcalls, so when the dance ends, John grabs the karaoke mike and demands a vote by applause for the best dancer.

Sherlock is disgruntled that Tad wins that round. He demands a rematch, very glad that the alcohol has affected him not at all this evening.

There are hoots and some more volunteers from the Scotland Yarders who are there for the festivities. The routine takes fifteen more minutes to learn, and ten men take the stage to strut their stuff while Robert Palmer tells them all they’re _Addicted to Love_.

Ellery from Records takes it on himself to keep the vote going, ballroom dancing style, so dancers are evicted from the stage on a regular basis until the final four – Greg (and nobody’s going to vote him off during his own stag night, and besides, he’s a good dancer) and John (who is getting creative now with the spinning on his heels, Michael Jackson style, and keeps going up to dance at Sherlock Holmes with wicked sassy moves) and Sherlock (who is dancing back at John in a bizarre one-upmanship that is just too hilarious to get rid of) and of course Tad Anderson, whose Jackson-esque moves are eloquent.

When Sherlock isn’t trying to match John’s moves, he’s determinedly attempted to out-dance Tad. He’s good too, keeping up, but there’s something very natural about Tad’s approach. Sherlock is a good dancer, but Tad absolutely loves dancing and it shows 

At the end of Robert Palmer, Sherlock admits that Tad is the better dancer and sulks off to buy a round of drinks, because John has declared that’s his forfeit. It wasn’t mentioned in the original terms, but the hell with it, thinks Sherlock. If he gets Tad drunk enough, maybe he’ll trip over his own flamenco arms at some point and redeem the evening.

A good few hours pass. Dancing has given way to karaoke. Greg and John are on the stage singing a Britney Spears song and harmonising nicely.

Sherlock, having switched from gin and tonic to the occasional vodka shot, is impressed at how little effect the alcohol is having on either his coordination or speech patterns, though from time to time he wonders if it’s the reason he was on that stage not twenty minutes ago singing Frank Sinatra’s _I Won’t Dance_. He doesn’t really even know how he knows the song. He does recall being talked into the number by John – nobody else has the capacity to talk him into things, actually – and then John joined him for a rendition of _When I’m 64_. That went down well. They both ended up laughing because first John then Sherlock kept changing the words.

 _I could be handy, putting out flames_  
When the kitchen is on fire  
Experiment with acid by the fireside  
The killer’s motive is then verified

 _Jump off a lockup, then fall in the Thames_  
Who could ask for more?  
Will you consult me, will you insult me  
When I’m 64?

A lot of the crowd have drifted off, having given Greg what John assures Sherlock is a splendid send-off. Greg has been grinning all night, despite some ragging about him being a glutton for punishment. He won’t be put off. His first marriage was less than ideal, but Greg is beyond smitten with his fiancé, and he is beyond even that with the notion that he is going to be a father, that he and Molly will be parents. The man is nauseatingly in love and excited for his future. Their future.

There’s only a handful of people still in the bar, and Greg, while still not fall down drunk, is drunk enough that he keeps chanting Molly’s name like a little song, and that gives Tad an idea. He shares the idea with John, who is captivated by it, because he’s too drunk to know better. He convinces Greg – no difficult task – and then he convinces Sherlock, which is harder, but you know, it’s a Collared thing, and it’s for Molly, and _you know_ , it’s a thing that friends do.

Sherlock is not at all convinced that it’s a thing that all friends do, but… as part of his social experiment, it’s not outside the parameters, and it might also make Molly happy when she comes to collect Greg at the appointed hour. (Sensible people arrange other sensible people to be the Designated Driver, and John had made those plans. Molly is having her own night out tonight, though not alcohol-related, obviously, and it made sense for her to come and gather up her man to take him home come midnight. Sensible plan. Sensible John. Sensible, sensible, sensible…

It takes Sherlock a second to get his brain to stop repeating the word and he wonders if in fact he is much, much drunker than he thinks he is.)

It takes a while, because they are all pretty buzzed at this point, but John points out that they are _perfeshionals_ and goddamnit they can get this _right._

Sherlock no longer cares that frankly he looks like a tit. They all do, but he’s got a warm buzz in his veins that is unfamiliar and therefore interesting, and it _is_ kind of a Collared thing, which is familiar and pleasant, and it’s making Greg laugh, and it will make Molly laugh, and those are good things too. He has friends, now, and in spite of himself he would like to make them laugh. Sherlock doesn’t usually make people laugh – well, except for John. Usually he makes people pissed off, and usually that’s all right, he doesn’t actually give a toss, but tonight he does and he promised John he’d not be an arse, and it’s kind of fun, in a pitiful, wet, _god normal people are inane_ way but damn he actually really is very drunk, and he realises he stopped making proper notes for his experiment about two hours ago, and he hasn’t been drunk like this since he broke into Mycroft’s liquor cabinet for a similar experiment when Sherlock was fourteen and Mycroft was at university, and god, that was awful, what made him think that was a good idea, or that this was a good idea?

But, ah, hell, here comes Molly and might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb and the puzzled look on her face is already showing a hint of laughter.

And Sherlock can see that Molly is happy, and she’s had a good night and she has had morning sickness and she hasn’t eaten much and her cat Toby has had his claws trimmed in the last two days and Molly’s mother is giving Molly unnecessary advice which Molly started to follow then decided not to, and that bracelet was a gift from Greg and (and there are Mary and Nirupa too and he’s not too sure how he feels about them witnessing what’s to follow, but then, it will probably make Mary laugh, watching John dance, Mary loves John which is good, because John loves Mary and)

And Sherlock thinks he really is very drunk, actually, because not only can he not find his brain’s off switch, he doesn’t normally want one, let alone need one, but this is getting ridiculous.

John grabs Sherlock by the shoulder and hauls him up onto the stage, which is a bit of a relief, really, and Greg has grabbed the microphone and half shouts into it: “This is for you, baby!”

The backing track starts, and there’s dancing and three voices singing ‘Dah-da-da, Dah-da-da” before Greg launches into:

_Let it never be said_

_That romance is dead_

_Cos there’s so little else_

_Occupying my head_

_There is nothing I need_

_Except the function to breathe_

_But I’m not really fussed_

_Doesn’t matter to me_

Then suddenly all four of them jump into formation, pointing at Molly and changing just that one lyric of the Kaiser Chiefs’ song so that they sing/shout:

_MOLLY, MOLLY, MOLLY, MOLLY!_

(and Tad and John sing the Ah-ahhh-ah-ahhhh)

_DO YA DO YA DO YA DO YA_

_KNOW WHAT YOU’RE DOIN’ TO ME?_

The next verse progresses, with Greg grabbing the mike and jumping off the stage to sing to his lady love. He has an arm wrapped around her, his forehead pressed to hers, and the lyrics are starting to disappear because he’s kissing her forehead and pressing his nose into her hair, and she’s giggling. Then he jumps away back into line to do the dance they spent so long working out. He’s thrusting his hips and bum for her and grinning like a twat, and she’s laughing so hard she’s had to hang onto the back of a chair.

Sherlock knows that Greg is not half as drunk as he’s been pretending to be, and that John is much more drunk than he’s been letting on, but still far from fall down drunk, and that Tad has been on mineral water for the last hour, and that he himself is throwing himself into this social drinking experiment a bit more fully than he’d intended to begin with but, as John likes to say, it’s fine, it’s all fine, and the song ends and there is applause. Applause is nice. Sherlock likes applause. He bows, and John laughs so hard he hangs onto Sherlock for support. Not such a good idea. They both stagger. Sherlock has to straighten up and plant his feet wide to anchor them both. He opens his eyes (when did he close them?) to find Mary gazing fondly at the pair of them. That’s strange. Why should Mary be gazing fondly at _him_?

“Nice work,” she says, and Sherlock isn’t clear whether she means the singing, the dancing, or not letting John make them both fall on their arses. He decides to just agree with her.

“Yes. Very nice. I am a very good dancer.”

_Where the hell did that come from?_

At his side, John cackles with gleeful laughter and the next thing Sherlock knows, John has grabbed him by the neck and pulled him down to… to ruffle his hair with manic joy, and then to grab him by the ears, holding him in place, to plant a smacking kiss on the crown of Sherlock’s head.

“You are a fucking good dancer,” John agrees with him.

Sherlock shakes himself free of John’s enthusiastic grasp, and John starts to fall down. Sherlock seizes John’s upper arm and hands him over to Mary.

“Here, Mary,” says Sherlock, still pleased at how his diction is so clear, “John loves you.” That wasn’t what he meant to say, though he can’t remember now quite what he meant to say. Something about ‘take this fool home’ probably.

“Yes, I’ll take the fool home,” says Mary, and now Sherlock has no idea which of those things he’s said aloud, but then John adds:

“Sherlock is right. Sherlock is always right. Except when he’s a daft git and is wrong. But about this he is right. I love you. Love you love you love you love you. It is the truest of all the true things. Let’s dance.”

Mary obliges, because even quite drunk, John is a good dancer. He wraps his arms around her, buries his nose in her neck and sighs contentedly as he leads her in a surprisingly sure-footed waltz.

Sherlock watches them for a moment, with a strange sense of satisfaction, then walks carefully over to Greg, hardly wobbling at all. Greg is busy kissing Molly, so Sherlock waits patiently. For about five seconds. He’s not a patient man. Everyone knows this. So he just starts talking.

“Sentiment is form of chemical imbalance and it makes people stupid,” he begins, and that gets their attention, “I have been reliably informed that caring is not an advantage, but congratulations anyway.”

He waits for a response.

“You insufferable git,” says Greg, though in counterpoint to his words, Greg’s expression is betraying affection underneath the irritation, “Caring was an advantage to me when you did that mad thing to save my life, as well as John’s and Mrs Hudson’s. It was an advantage when Molly cared enough to help you to survive your hare-brained schemes as well.”

Greg is clearly much less drunk than he’s been pretending, and Sherlock is pleased that he was right about that. Then what Greg said sinks in.

Sherlock frowns. He thinks about that for a minute. Molly caring was certainly an advantage for him with that whole sorry/awful/vile/painful Moriarty business. He will remind Mycroft of that next time Mycroft makes some inane pronouncement about caring. Yes he will.

 “You saved me,” Greg is continuing, jabbing Sherlock in the chest with a very hard forefinger. “You saved us. Was that a waste of time?”  He sounds a bit cross now, and less affectionate.

Sherlock is just nodding agreement, “Yes, yes, my brother’s actually an idiot about these things, I just meant... “The words have gone away, and Sherlock gives a gusty sigh, which ends with him pressing his forehead to Greg’s. “You saved me first,” he says suddenly, softly, their faces pressed close together, “When I was a stupid kid and should have died and you didn’t let me. I have no idea why you cared at all. No idea. But you saved me. So. Caring. Yes.”

Sherlock’s at a loss for how to proceed, and a bit uncomfortable, so he stands up and glares at Greg and Molly. Defiantly. “You both saved me, and I am absolutely pants at this, so. Congratulations. Whatever. Make each other happy. Don’t go all sloppy on me now. It’s horrible.”

They hug him anyway. He stands here, taking it, cringing, and unable to hug back because his arms are pinned to his side, and he can’t work out if that’s a good or a bad thing. He gives up attempting to work it out and simply stands there, a cross look on his face, and suffers himself to be hugged. He looks like a cranky cat being manhandled by cat lovers.

John rescues Sherlock by burrowing into the scrum, taking hold of the back of Sherlock’s jacket and hauling him bodily out.

“Is Sherlock giving that bullshit ‘sentiment is rubbish’ speech again?” John wants to know. On confirmation, he again ruffles Sherlock hair with vigour. “He’s fucking adorable when he’s being a pillock.”

Sherlock scowling, rounds on him and vigorously hair-ruffles his best friend’s head until John’s hair is in tangled spikes and they trip over each other and end up, the pair of them, on the floor, on their arses, laughing said arses right off.

Tad appears from nowhere, hauls them both up to their feet and attempts to steer them towards Mary, who is dangling the keys for her hire car, implying that yes, she has these particular fools covered for getting home. Tad’s drunk-buzz is mostly worn off and while he’s not fit to drive home he has become, by default, the Responsible One for the evening, making sure everyone has a driver or a taxi.

Sherlock peers at Tad and then says: “You are quite a good teacher. Of dancing. You surprise me. I like being surprised. You’re still an idiot, but you have rhythm. You should teach something, though. Things. Anything to get you away from crime scenes.”

“Thanks.” Tad smiles and then frowns. “God. Look at me. I’m now taking your insults as compliments. You’re an ass. I’m an ass.”

John dances a bit to show off his own arse, grabs Sherlock for a salsa move and then swings off to dance with Mary.

Nirupa is suddenly at Sherlock’s side, and they are both watching Mary and John. Sherlock, without thinking about it much, turns to take her in a dance hold and begins to salsa with her. “I like you, D’Souza,” says Sherlock, “You are not an idiot.”

“Thank you, I suppose,” says Nirupa. She’s a good dancer too. Tall, of a height with Sherlock, and graceful. He finds it pleasant to dance with her.

“I know of a herb,” says Nirupa, “It is said that if you make an infusion from it and drink it before bed and first thing in the morning, you won’t get a hangover.”

“That seems unlikely,” says Sherlock.

“I agree,” says Nirupa, “But the people from this village I know swear by it.”

“And how drunk do they get on a, let’s say, monthly basis?”

“Not very,” she says, and she is laughing, and he laughs with her, because it is funny. He doesn’t know why, but it is.

“I rarely drink,” Sherlock admits, “But the occasion apparently called for it. John explained this to me, perhaps thinking I wasn’t aware of British social customs.”

“Ah,” Nirupa says knowingly, “British social rituals involving alcohol. Just like anywhere, really. Little rituals and customs to ease a path through life. Little things that communities do to allow certain interactions to take place, whether it’s a village in Peru or a pub in Loughton.”

Sherlock leads Nirupa a few more steps around the room and then says: “The rituals of Loughton pubs are rather simple, really, and seem mainly to involve the lowering of inhibitions long enough for British men to be sentimental before we all go away and get violently ill with hangovers and pretend we never said anything embarrassing in the first place.”

He sounds suspiciously himself for a moment, and then he trips over his own shoes and lets Nirupa go before he knocks her flying. He rights himself at the last minute and stands there, glaring at his feet as though they are conspiring against him.

Nirupa has no idea, just then, exactly how drunk Sherlock is, or whether he is drunk at all. It’s a convincing act, if that’s what it is, but then Sherlock looks up at her, a lopsided smile on his face, and says, quite clearly: “I am going to be violently ill now.”

She shoves him towards the gents, and he disappears through the door in time and she hopes he made it to a cubicle. She doesn’t want to share carspace with him if he doesn’t. He returns unsoiled, though with a faintly acidic smell clinging to him.

“Are you going to make it home?” she asks.

“Of course!” he says, waving a hand then tripping over a chair.

John is back, and laughing at Sherlock. He holds out a hand, which Sherlock grasps, and they teeter out to the car park, Sherlock complaining all the while that gravity is not meant to be mutable.

“Tomorrow morning,” says Mary, with a wicked grin, “I am going to cook them both a fry-up to make the gods curse, rich in eggs, bacon and black pudding.”

“May I take notes?”

“And photographs, if you like. Sherlock’s fond of evidence.”

“You are an unkind woman, Mary Morstan,” says Nirupa, but she’s laughing.

“I do have an evil sense of humour,” Mary concurs, “But that’s one of the things John says he loves about me.”

 

“It’s certainly one of the things _I_ love about you.”

 

“I see no down side here,” says Mary.

In the morning, John and Sherlock will not appreciate her sense of humour, though later Sherlock will, despite himself, appreciate the notes and photographs. It’s all grist to the mill of science, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is of course from the song by The Weather Girls.
> 
> See The Kaiser Chiefs' video for [Ruby](http://youtu.be/qObzgUfCl28) on youtube.


End file.
